


old, familiar place

by thechapwiththearms



Category: Smash (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Billy Joel - Freeform, First Kiss, M/M, Meet-Cute, Musicians, Piano Bar AU, Song: Perfect Day (Lou Reed), aspiring actor sam, it’s just mentioned in passing tho nothing serious, like obviously theyre in a bar, pianist tom, singer sam, song: scenes from an italian restaurant (billy joel), tom owns a piano bar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:49:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25192681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thechapwiththearms/pseuds/thechapwiththearms
Summary: tom levitt owns a piano bar and has a bunch of very loyal customers. a new face appears one evening.
Relationships: Tom Levitt/Sam Strickland
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	old, familiar place

**Author's Note:**

> louis stop randomly mentioning songs in fics challenge 100% fail

It was a late May evening — the last remnants of the day’s light had petered out a couple of hours ago, and people had begun to take refuge from the big air in the city’s various bars and clubs. Tom grinned as he perched himself on the edge of the piano stool, fingers resting on the keys in anticipation. 

Truly, this feeling never got old; it had been a dream of his since he was in school to own a piano bar — a place of his very own, filled with people whose faces he was always glad to see, decorated according to his own tastes, and of course, filled with incredible music on a nightly basis. It had been around five years since he fulfilled that dream and bought a run-down old dive which, after a considerable amount of hard work, he converted into the creatively named ‘ _Tom’s_.’

The bar was nestled between an Italian restaurant and a rather dilapidated diner, right in the middle of Brooklyn, New York City, no less. Outside, it bore its name in garish but alluring pink neon, and its windows were small and sunken, not giving much of an impression of what was inside. Honestly, for the unaware, it was easy to walk right past without even noticing that it was there. Inside, however, Tom’s was constantly buzzing with life; its owner had countless loyal patrons who made his bar their nightly haunt. On the walls hung black-and-white portraits of various musicians: these included Ella Fitzgerald, The Beatles, and Tom’s all-time favourite, Billy Joel. String lights almost cobwebbed the ceiling and walls, providing one of the only sources of light in the whole bar, which was extraordinarily dimly lit (Tom called this “mood lighting,” but mostly it just made it incredibly difficult to read the drinks menu).

Every face in the bar beamed as Tom took his place at the piano — people loved it when he played, and loved it even more when he sang. People would constantly tell him that he was far too talented to be singing in bars, that he belonged on broadway, and the like, but Tom didn’t wish for anything more. He loved performing in his bar, on his own terms, for people who loved being there as much as he loved seeing them. After taking a quick swing of his drink (bourbon and soda, as any of his regulars could likely tell you), he shifted on the piano stool and began to play the intro to ‘Perfect Day’ by Lou Reed, which was greeted by rapturous applause and much glass-tapping. Eyes falling shut as he let the electric atmosphere consume him, Tom began to sing:

_“Just a perfect day,_

_Drink sangria in the park_

_And then later when it gets dark,_

_We go home...”_

Everyone was enraptured. Tom’s voice and the sound of the piano filled the tiny bar, bouncing off the walls and creating an almost choral echo. He smiled as he continued to sing; he was simply never more content than when he was performing. Honestly, that was the reason he had never set his sights any higher than his little piano bar — he didn’t want to lose that feeling, that euphoria he felt when he was playing for people who wanted to be played to. He didn’t want to play in some fancy venue that valued ticket prices over loyal patronage or a genuine love for music. He didn’t want money to get in the way of his passion. He had his whole life invested in Tom’s, and as far as he was concerned, he had everything he wanted there.

Well, perhaps apart from one thing.

However, he had consigned _that_ thought to the very back of his mind. He had made the decision quite a while ago that he hadn’t the patience nor the effort for romance; he was thirty-seven years old and he had never been in a relationship that lasted longer than five months. After years of depressingly unsuccessful first dates and one-night-stands with men whose names he could seldom remember, Tom Levitt had decidedly labelled himself as romantically inept. When he sung the lines,

_“Oh, it’s such a perfect day,_

_I’m glad I spent it with you.”_

He was singing to his patrons, to his bar, to New York as a whole, rather than to anyone in particular.

As he finished the song, he was once again met with copious applause, and many offers of drinks (which he politely declined, gesturing in the direction of his almost-full glass still atop the piano; still, some persisted).

“I’m fine, really! I’m flattered though, guys. Flattered!” Tom assured them.

“You’re the best, Tom!” Crooned one patron.

“Seriously, the best, man!” Hollered another.

Tom grinned from ear to ear, shaking his head and taking another sip of his drink. Leaning against the side of the piano, he scanned the bar, his eyes falling on familiar face after familiar face until they met with someone he was sure that he hadn’t seen before entering the bar through its heavy double doors. Now, as much as Tom loved his bar and had faith in its longevity, the latter was largely due to the fact that he had a solid customer base that visited consistently,day in, day out ; in other words, _Tom’s_ seldom saw a lot of new faces. As such, the pianist’s interest was always piqued when someone new came to visit. Usually, it was just some lost tourist seeking directions or a group of drunk college students searching for places they hadn’t been kicked out of yet, but he always greeted them warmly regardless. And besides, this new face was seemingly neither of those things; he came alone, carrying only a small backpack that he had slung over a single shoulder. He was dressed in a black duffle coat and a red-and-yellow patterned scarf that was hanging loosely around his neck, and he eyed the interior of the bar as if it were somewhere he’d been searching for his whole life.

Interest firmly piqued, Tom managed to slink away from the small crowd now surrounding his piano and stand instead behind the bar in a not-so-covert attempt to find out more about the visiting stranger. A bartender quirked an eyebrow and moved to let him past, definitely understanding more about Tom’s thought process than Tom himself did in that moment.

The stranger slowly made his way towards the bar, still looking around inquisitively as if he had been presented with the holy grail itself. As he drew closer, their eyes met and Tom gave a smile, which the man returned in earnest, beaming as he sat himself down on a barstool and set his bag down gently between his feet. He leant on the bar and quipped,

“This place is so fuckin’ cool.”

“Oh, thank you so much!” Tom answered with pride, “Can I get you a drink?”

“Oh, yeah, just a beer, please.”

“We’ve got—“

“No, no, none of that craft nonsense. I just want a bottle of beer. Just… _normal_ beer.” The man said in mock exasperation.

Tom smirked, “One _normal_ beer coming right up.”

After disappearing beneath the bar for a matter of seconds, Tom emerged with a bottle of Coors, opened it, and placed it on the bar.

“Lemon?”

Sam laughed. “No, thanks.”

“That’ll be $6,” Tom smiled.

Sam returned the smile and laid a small pile of bills on the bar. Tom picked them up and counted them.

“Woah, you’re way over. Here.” He held a couple of the notes out.

“Don’t worry about it.” Another smile.

Tom cocked an eyebrow and thanked the man. “What’s your name?”

“Sam. Yours?”

“Tom.”

“Wait, Tom as in…” he gestured vaguely out of the window, “ _Tom_ , Tom?”

“Uh-huh.” Tom twirled faux-dramatically, as if that would do anything to further indicate his ownership of the bar.

“You own this place?”

“Sure do.”

The man — Sam — looked utterly fascinated upon gaining this piece of information, and the pair spent a while chatting thereafter. Tom explained some of his history with the bar, stressing his passion for playing and hearing music and, in turn, learned that Sam had just recently moved to New York from Minnesota with hopes of breaking into the world of musical theatre after years of unfulfilling jobs back home. He’d “done it all,” he said: waiting tables, barstaffing, retail work, but felt there was nothing for him in Minneapolis. The pair seemed to hit it off immediately — something Tom hadn’t experienced in quite a while; sure, he loved the idle chat he’d usually make with his regulars, but it never usually got any further than a passing mention of the weather or a brief congratulations on a performance. With Sam, Tom felt instantly at ease. Hell, he was practically telling his life story to someone he’d met not half an hour ago, and the stranger in question was doing the same. It was different. It was… _nice_.

“I’ve actually got my first audition next week,” Sam told Tom coyly.

“What? That’s amazing! What’s it for?”

“A new musical, actually. They’re still working on it, I think. If I get it, it’ll be in the workshop stage for quite a while. I don’t mind though. I’m just super excited to be considered.” Sam illustrated his point by practically glowing as he talked, the anticipation painfully visible on his face.

Tom just smiled in response. Not dismissively, however, this was a sincere smile. Here was a young, hopeful man sitting in front of him, telling all of his dreams to a relative stranger in a bar he’d never been to before. He felt a strange sense of honour about being on the receiving end of Sam’s enthusiastic tales. As he listened intently, an idea that should have struck him immediately came to mind.

“So, are you gonna sing for us, Broadway baby?” Tom gestured towards the small stage at the far end of the bar which housed the piano and microphone stand. His tone was playful but his question entirely sincere.

“I—what?” Sam was suddenly bashful.

“Well, this is a piano bar”

“Oh, I don’t play.”

“Well, it’s a good thing that I do, then, isn't it?” Tom gave a warm smile.

“Oh. I—” Sam paused, “You do?”

“Yeah.”

Sam hesitated as he thought for a second, but then immediately perked up when he caught sight of the portraits adorning the barroom walls. At once, he asked,

“Do you know any Billy Joel?”

Tom grinned like a fool, “ _Do_ I?” He meant on the bar for dramatic effect, “Try his entire discography.”

Sam chuckled, “ _Scenes From an Italian Restaurant_?”

“You’re on.”

Tom could have leapt over the bar. Instead, however, he made his way to the end and stepped around it excitedly. Pausing for a split second, he asked himself why he was so excited to hear some guy he’d barely known for an hour sing, but quickly scolded himself for over-analysing the situation. Sam was in the audition process for a broadway musical, he was bound to have a wonderful voice, and as much as he hated to admit it, the bar sure needed some free faces and voices. Surely that was why he wanted to hear him sing so badly. Of course. Why else?

With a spring in his step Tom made his way onto the cramped stage and took the microphone from its position by the piano, instead placing it in the upright stand and speaking into it. Immediately, the buzz of chat died down as people began to listen.

“Okay, everyone, we’ve got a new face in the bar tonight, and he’s gonna sing for you all!”

He pointed at Sam and gestured for him to come onstage. Abashedly, he obliged and made his way over to Tom.

“This is Sam—uh…” it was at this moment that Tom realised he didn’t know Sam’s surname.

Sam laughed and filled in for him, leaning towards the microphone. “Strickland.”

“Sam Strickland, everybody!” Tom announced proudly, patting the singer on the back before taking his place at the piano. He had pages upon pages of sheet music, but he didn’t even consider using it — he thought he must have played this song hundreds of times before (likely much to the chagrin of his patrons, neighbours, parents, exes, siblings…); he let his fingers settle into place and began to play the intro. There were a few chuckles and knowing smiles here and there throughout the bar, everyone aware of Tom’s affinity both for the song and Billy Joel in general. His fingers moved gracefully over the keys, and Sam began to sing.

_“A bottle of white,_

_A bottle of red,”_

Holy shit, Tom thought. Eight words in and he was already entranced by this man’s voice. It had a soft, warm quality to it that drew you in and simply forced you to listen. He could command a room with his singing alone, for sure. At once, Tom (along with everyone else in the room, he thought) knew immediately that Sam was made to perform. He knew that he would be going places. He knew that he would get that part he was auditioning for. He just knew. He was hypnotised, and he didn’t mind one bit. Although, he was briefly thankful for the fact that Sam had chosen a song that he was already so familiar with. Tom was unsure he could retain his ability to sight-read music while listening to Sam sing.

_“Perhaps a bottle of rosè instead._

_Get a table near the street_

_In our old familiar place,_

_You and I, face to face, mmm…”_

For a fleeting moment, Tom imagined that Sam was singing to him. He let himself run with that fantasy for a mere few seconds before crushing it immediately. He was simply _not_ going to catch feelings for this man. For anyone. He was done with love, that’s what he had told himself so many times before. The years of hurt and pining he’d experienced in last relationships had been enough to put anyone off romance for life. Besides, he didn’t even know whether Sam was gay or not. 

_No_ , he thought. _Don’t even think about it_.

The song’s tempo picked up, and Sam took the microphone from its stand so he could move around the stage a little more. Smiling, he placed a hand on Tom’s shoulder as he sang. Tom looked around to see Sam briefly smiling down at him as he played, before returning to face the enraptured audience, a huge grin still plastered firmly across his face as he performed. 

_Good lord_ , Tom thought to himself. Sam’s energy was infectious and, much to Tom’s lament, impossible to ignore.

_“I’ll meet you anytime you want,_

_In our Italian restaurant.”_

As the song drew to a close, the sound of applause once again filled the room, this time punctuated with whistles and hollers — it seemed that the crowd loved Sam’s performance almost as much as Tom did. The pair grinned knowingly at one another before the pianist began the intro to another song. And so, the night went on in such a fashion, with Tom at the piano and Sam at the microphone, working their way through one another’s repertoires as the audience pulled chairs closer to the stage and listened intently, cheering louder and louder after every number.

Caught up in the hazy brilliance of it all, Tom had hardly noticed that they were fast approaching closing time. Once their next song drew to a close, however, else caught sight of the clock on the wall behind the bar and giggled. 

“Alright, Sam, everyone. This is the most fun I’ve had in a long time, but I think that’s gotta be it for tonight,” he said, audibly deflated.

Some of the audience heckled briefly, but there was always a mutual understanding between Tom and his customers that he had to abide by the city council’s rules or he ran the risk of losing his bar altogether. As such, people began to filter out of the bar slowly, most profusely thanking Tom and Sam for their performances and emptying their pockets into the tip jar on top of the piano.

Once everyone else had left, Sam made his way back over to the bar to pick up his bag. Quickly, Tom gathered up the money from the tip jar and half-jogged over to the singer as he was putting on his coat.

“Hey, your tips!”

“Oh! They’re—” Sam paused “man, that’s a lot. You should keep some. You played, after all.”

Tom looked at him incredulously for a second before chuckling, “Sam, I own the place. I promise you, they’re your tips.” He took a hold of Sam’s hand, turned it palm-up and placed all of the money in it. At last, he took it and put it in his back pocket.

Sam blushed, “I— thanks, Tom,” he said sincerely.

Tom just smiled in response. He paused for a second before adding,

“You have a beautiful voice.”

Sam met Tom’s eyes at this remark, still slightly flustered.

“I mean it. Like, really, really good.”

“Well, you’re an amazing player.”

“Thank you.”

The pair stood in silence for a moment, just watching one another intently for a next move. 

“Do you want to stay for another drink? It’s obviously my job to close up, so we cou—”

Suddenly, Tom was cut off by Sam closing the space between them with a chaste and rather abrupt kiss. When they parted, Sam immediately looked panicked.

“Oh god, I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have— that was so stupid of me to do. Oh god. We don’t even…know each other. I’m—”

“Sam.”

“—honestly so sorry, I should really—”

“Sam.”

“r—really just go, I…”

“ _Sam_.” Tom said, more insistent this time.

Sam finally stopped rambling, and Tom gently grabbed the lapel of his coat, drawing him closer once again, and kissed him — a longer, but equally soft kiss that left both parties positively flushed when they parted. Tom kept hold of Sam’s coat for a moment longer and placed another small peck on his cheek before letting go again.

“I think I will stay for that drink,” Sam smirked.

 _Damn him_ , Tom thought, but gladly obliged.


End file.
